


The First Act is Bloody

by LittleBuddy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gen, no beta we die like men, origin story for Anne's hat basically, this show wrecked me so now i'm wrecking yall, will add character tags and warnings as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: She produces a dagger from their discarded clothes, and at first he thinks she’s going to gut him. That’d be about right, given his history. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed, flipping her long red locks over her shoulders. He understands this to be her answer, and is floored by the implications of her allowing him to stand at her back with a knife. With her late husband’s lifeblood leaking onto the bed next to them, Jack stands at the edge of the bed and cuts her hair.(We write the content we need, so - here's Jack/Anne backstory. Ft. bloody knuckles, friends to lovers, and Jack-actually-gay-Rackham's lovable fashion sense.)
Relationships: Anne Bonny/"Calico" Jack Rackham
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born from a desire to have more content on my favorite duo, and I have another bit in the works that'll tie Vane in at some point. Slightly canon divergent (I've taken liberties with timelines and etc) but nothing monumental. I'll update tags and warnings as I go, but for now just be aware that there is violence/language/sexual content, but nothing graphic. Leave a comment if you feel like it!

Jack’s read that a person starts to remember their childhood around the age at which they develop conscience; that is, if one can emotionally define the situation beyond immediate surface perception, there is a greater chance that they’ll recall it later. 

Jack had been five when she passed. He remembers every detail of his mother’s death with such clarity that it’s as though he perpetrated the act himself - and yet, he feels nothing when he reflects on it. Either his internal compass that directed his conscience has broken in the time since he was forced to transition from tailor’s boy to runaway, or his book was wrong. Either thought was depressing, so he didn’t dwell on it much beyond that. 

The same couldn't be said of his father’s downfall. Jack loved him with a devotion known only to a son whose father has wholeheartedly believed in him. To be treated as an individual from such an early age may have contributed to Jack’s ability to talk to whomever would listen for as long as they would let him - an annoyance to many and blessing to few - but in addition to that, his father had raised him as a person and treated him like a partner, a cohort. Jack could recall the way his father would shake his hand at the end of their discussions - tell him _“I appreciate your perspective, Jack,” and then add “But have you thought about…”_ He was always just above Jack’s intellect level, and Jack made a full time job out of trying to reach that level. Some of his success must surely be based on this, the way his father raised him to keep grasping, learning, fighting his way upward in knowledge and skill. 

Then came the law - another name for corruption, as was often the case - and the embargo that effectively put his father in the ground. It took time, of course. There had been hope, at the beginning, that maybe they could hold on and make things work. Ever the engineer, his father had attempted to find revenues through which he could continue his business. Jack knew the moment it was over before it ever _truly_ ended: he and his father had been working on a set-up in the shop window, a truly beautiful display of one of the latest dress coats his father had created. In donning it, a man would, at a glance, immediately express his social ranking and stature in the world. Gold stitching along the hem of the cuff contrasted the deep maroon undertones. Jack had loved it, admired it, wished it was his design. As they’d set the display, people walked by the window in blurs of colors and fabrics. The flow of traffic parted around a man who’d paused near their storefront. Jack looked up, catching the man’s eye. He was a regular, one of the men who cared very deeply about how he was perceived by society and his peers. He met Jack’s eyes, smiled sheepishly - and left. Jack looked back to the display, praying his father hadn’t seen, but the look on his father’s worn face told Jack all he needed to know.

The shop was done for.

The drinking began the day his father closed the business officially, signaling both the end of his father’s legacy and the beginning of Jack’s attempt to build one. Not long after that, the two of them had to move to a rented room. Jack had to pare his belongings down to a manageable size, getting rid of what he could. He’d sat for an hour, wearing his jackets one more time, feeling the stitching of his favorite scarves before picking just one to take with him. Maybe it was stupid, to care that much about objects and things, but then, at what would be the end of his time in Leeds, he hadn’t had anything else to call his own. The shop was gone. Their name was, well, smeared. His father was gone, replaced by a caricature of the man Jack had known, and Jack was left with little sense of identity. If he wasn’t the tailor’s son, who was he? 

They were bankrupt together. Then his father died, and Jack was bankrupt alone. When the man came to collect on debts Jack’s father had supposedly owed him, there was but one option. Emotionally destitute and monetarily famished, Jack had nothing to offer and little to lose. Within a fortnight, he was gone. It’d be a falsehood to say he hadn’t looked back - England had been his home. The tailor’s shop, or what was left of it, had been the frame around which he’d built his understanding of the world. The cotton embargo had transformed the framework to a skeleton, and eventually Jack had to let it go, lest the stench of decay follow him. 

He was fourteen when he found himself taken in by the quartermaster of the _Argos_ , a four-masted bark anchored in the harbor and in need of fresh crew. Jack was expendable, the captain was in need - the deal was arranged. Looking back, Jack’s sure that he would never have been considered a candidate if it weren’t for the state he’d been in. Hobbled by poverty, he was dirt streaked and hungry and in no state to refuse whatever wages they offered him. He signed his name in the ledger and never looked back.

Life on the _Argos_ wasn’t any easier than life on land; indeed, it was harder in some aspects. Jack’s hands blistered painfully, raw and bloody where fingers met palm. His shoulders ached, and sometimes it was all he could do just to make it to his hammock before passing out. Morning whistle always came too early. That said, he found reassurance in belonging - perhaps not with his crewmates, who were truly of another breed, but to a place, with an identity of his own. He was fed and paid, and if both were wanting in real substance, well, it didn’t matter. Given the opportunity, Jack would always take work by choice over work by force. 

Eventually it became easier. His skin darkened, his hands calloused, and his back became stronger. His skin thickened, surrounded by men who made a daily ordeal of harassing one another in the name of camaraderie, and he became a fair hand. 

He stayed there, on the bottom rung of a ladder that stretched forever above him, until one fateful raid put them in possession of a second ship and half her crew. The ship’s logs had to be examined, receipts and accounts and shares figured, and amidst this, the quartermaster had to keep an eye on the members of the crew who refused to submit to their new employer. With the captain severely wounded, the quartermaster had been stretched beyond his capacity. He addressed the crew over stew that evening, asking for anyone who could read and cipher to please identify themselves. Raising his hand slowly, Jack singled himself out, the lone literate in the sea of shipmates surrounding him. Whitlock put him to work on the books, supervised by the captain. 

A generally agreeable man, captain Boone came to trust Jack in a wary sort of way; men with above average education could be dangerous on a ship where the captain held authority by holding surmount knowledge. He seemed to deem Jack likable at the least, offering him the choice of books from his small personal library. In this way, Jack found himself acting as ship’s accountant at the age of sixteen. 

They have a unique set-up. Jack’s not surprised; everything he does seems to be with people who do things differently, see the world differently. Boone acts as sole captain of both ships. They rarely separate, and Whitlock manages to remain quartermaster of both the _Argos_ and the _Howling Corvid_ , delegating tasks to those under him to manage the load of both ships. 

Both the master gunner and Jack take on more duty. Jack is in charge of making sure they have resources - money and food and goals. If the men go very long without a hunt, they get restless. Same for wages and food. He learns what to look for when they’re in harbor, signs and word of mouth leading them to battles that are both worthy of their time and physically obtainable. In this way, Jack is once again isolated. He’s not anything official - both captain and quartermaster could take over his duties should something happen to him - but he’s also not quite one of the crew. Sure, he still fights alongside them, however little he actually adds to the fight. And it’s true that he spends time in the rigging and below deck, pulling his perceived weight. But the men know he’s different, know he’s got a desk he could retreat behind if he chose, and so - surrounded by two ships full of men - Jack finds himself alone.

* * *

If conscience is defined by the ability to emotionally comprehend and react to a situation, then Jack is drowning in conscience.  
She’d entered the pub alongside a fat shit of a man. Jack knows he’s a shit of a man because he’s hauling her behind him like a dinghy, careless of her, pulling her down onto his lap and grabbing a handful of her skirts to pull her closer. She can’t be more than thirteen. Her eyes meet his with a steely sort of resignation that rips through him with a sting worse than that of a blade.

Jack is seventeen, and he’s going to kill that man.

That man’s name is James Bonny, Jack discovers - a low life pirate with a crew constantly on the edge of destruction. The server girl Jack questions doesn’t know much about the girl, but she averts her eyes, cheeks flushing deep when she tells Jack that word on the street has it that Captain Bonny lets his crew have their way with the girl, that she’s used however they please - Jack stops listening, then, unable to hear over the pounding of blood in his ears. 

Under the cover of nightfall, Jack enters the room Bonny had retired to. It’s over before Jack gives himself any more say in the matter. He’s not afraid of backing out, but he’s afraid of hesitating. He talks too much sometimes, thinks too long, costing himself opportunities that relied on timely decision making - and this isn’t a circumstance he’s willing to concede any ground on.  
He slits the man’s throat like he’s done it a thousand times, like he was made for this moment, like it was nothing. It is nothing. What’s one less swine in the world when there are countless more out there? But it’s done, and maybe it’s something to her.

Blood doesn’t trickle onto the bed so much as it gushes, seeping into the blankets. Jack thinks momentarily of the stain it will leave on the mattress, watching the bright crimson fading into dark brown as it crawls across the bedspread. She stands at the edge of the bed, eyes wide. 

Jack breathes deeply, realizing his diaphragm is shaking with the intake. He gestures vaguely. “Ever wanted to be a pirate?”

She produces a dagger from their discarded clothes, and at first he thinks she’s going to gut him. That’d be about right, given his history. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed, flipping her long red locks over her shoulders. He understands this to be her answer, and is floored by the implications of her allowing him to stand at her back with a knife. 

With her late husband’s lifeblood leaking onto the bed next to them, Jack stands at the edge of the bed and cuts her hair. He considers shearing it to the scalp, but something niggles at the back of his mind - an illustration in one of his books depicting slaves, hair shaved, all wearing similar clothes. The goal, the text said, was to instill a lack of personhood. Jack can’t do it to her, not after freeing her, so - lock by lock - he trims the fiery mane until it’s shaggy and boyish, framing her face with enough length that she can pull it back if she wants. Plenty of the pirates wear it that way, having no interest in maintaining any sort of style or upkeep. and Jack reasons that maybe this way, she won’t feel like a slave, hair shorn to the scalp.

Dressed in her husband's clothes - Jack’s sense of fashion covers its eyes and promises to get her something better fitting - she follows him to the beach, sits beside him as they row to the ship with the other men he’d recruited the previous evening. The rising sun yawns awake over the horizon, stretching pastel tendrils of light across the water. Whitlock barely glances over the men - and woman - Jack has chosen to replace the crew they’d lost in the last skirmish. He claps Jack on the back and the men follow him below to sign on.

She’s assigned to the galley aboard the _Howling Corvid_ , per Jack’s suggestion. He sleeps there and feels better being able to keep an eye on her from the same ship, lest things go awry.

As the ships get underway, there's a stillness that follows in the wake of frantic activity necessary to get the ships moving. This is what has hooked Jack, kept him on the sea despite the physical suffering it’s caused him. The sun lays on the wooden deck like that’s where it belongs, seemingly pinned there by the shadows cast by the masts. The sound of the wind knocking lines against the hull, jokes exchanged between the men, the smell of sea and sweat - it plays the very heartstrings of Jack’s aestheticism, enamoring him with a spell he couldn’t break if he wanted to. How the girl at his side fits into the picture, he doesn’t know, but there’s no doubt in his mind that she does. A thought he refuses to think or even acknowledge whispers that maybe _she_ is the picture and he’s the observer. Maybe this is more her story than his, but maybe - just maybe - he’s found someone who will write it with him.

“Who’d you sign on as?”

She glances up at him, squinting against the light. 

“Ayne Bonny.”

He hmms softly, wondering if the use of her husband’s name was pointed. She doesn’t leave him to wonder.

“Anne’s my name. Figure that’s close enough I won’t forget who they’re talkin’ to if they use it. And I figure…” she pauses, tilting her head in a fuck-it-all sort of gesture. “Figure if he’s dead, and I couldn’t kill him, the next best thing is taking his name away. It’s mine, now. Reckon that’s reasonable.”

Jack nods, refuses a smile. He wants her to know he takes her seriously. “I imagine it’s more than reasonable.”

“And you? You ain’t told me a thing about ya’self. For all I know, you’re just a murderer.”

Jack can’t help but chuckle at that. A murderer he is not, despite the fact that he’s taken lives. He thinks back over the last four years, over the life he lived before that. Who is he?

“I’m Jack. Rackham.”

She nods and sticks out her hand.

Jack is seventeen, shaking the hand of a girl dressed as a boy, thinking about his father shaking his hand like an equal - like he believed in him. Her hand is soft, and much smaller than his, thin fingers nearly enveloped in his own.

“Welcome aboard.”


	2. Chapter 2

Anne is too smart to play a man convincingly, Jack decides. She doesn’t leave a mess in her wake, doesn’t erupt with laughter at horribly unfunny jokes - although to be fair, she doesn’t laugh at funny ones either - and she doesn’t take very well to their jokes about women. _Especially_ when they’re directed at her.

They’d boarded a small merchant ship that morning. Anne, as galley hand, hadn’t taken part. There’d been no need, anyhow - the merchant waved a white flag before they had time to call conditions. Smart move, on his part. Somehow, one of Boone’s men had still managed to get himself in a skirmish with a man from the merchant crew. The resulting fight was disastrous and left them with no choice but to kill many of the opposing crew. 

Once things calmed down, the process of transferring goods to the _Howling Corvid_ began. Anne stood near Jack, watching the crates of spices and fabrics come aboard.

“What a mess.” Jack ran a finger over the cut on his temple, feeling the scab that had started to form. Another crate was deposited on deck, this one stained with blood. Jack scowled. “Sure as hell hope that didn’t go through to the fabric.”

Masters - the man who’d instigated the fight - stepped on board, carrying a stack of books.

Anne’s lip curled. “All ‘cause _someone_ couldn’t keep his sword in his pants.”

Masters whirled on her, eyes blazing. He was taller than Anne by a head, with broad shoulders and log-like forearms.

“The fuck you say, Bonny?”

Jack murmurs under his breath for her to stand down, but she either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care.

“You heard me.”

Masters scowled. “Easy for you to comment, eh? Where were you? Oh - yeah.” He sneers at Anne. “Hiding in the kitchen like a woman.”

Anne lunges for him, pushing her body weight against his lower half. They topple backward over a crate and the books in Master’s arms go flying, much to Jack’s dismay. This isn’t the first fight she’s picked, so Jack can’t say he’s entirely surprised. Anne has enormous amounts of self-control but very little self-preservation, a balancing act that Jack has been watching for the few months she’s been on ship with them, waiting for the inevitable slips where he has to lunge and catch her before they both feel the consequences. He steels himself and steps between them where they landed, firmly planting a foot on Master’s sleeve.

“Uh-uh, no. There will be no more unnecessarily provoked fights today. Not on this ship, anyway.” He glares down at them. Masters looks ready to kill - and Anne looks like herself; a storm cloud. Jack sighs, looks at the books. The bent pages physically hurt him. “Get those picked up. We’ll take them across to Captain Boone after we get free.” Jack removes his foot, freeing Master’s sleeve. Anne’s already on her feet, straightening her linen shirt. 

“That’s not all I found in the captain’s quarters,” Masters says. He’s still scowling at Anne, and she’s shooting it right back.

“More books?”

Masters shook his head, looking at Jack. His irritation fades, replaced with a crooked grin that Jack finds both terrifying and exciting. He knows that look. Jack gestures. “Lead on.”

They cross to the merchant ship. Whitlock’s standing on the foredeck, directing a group of men carrying a crate of cannonballs. The mental picture of someone dropping their corner of the crate flits through Jack’s mind, and he gives them a wide berth as they pass.

Masters leads them into the belly of the ship, winding down the corridor. He stops at a large wooden door, holding it open for them. Jack enters, Anne like a shadow just behind him.

“Over here.”

Masters points behind the desk. There’s a dark oak chest with black detailing tucked into the corner. A lock hangs on it. Jack tries to shove the box, but it won’t budge. That’s a good sign - a very good one. 

“Never judge a ship by it’s cover.”

Masters throws Jack a questioning glance, but Jack waves him off. He looks around the room. There are still plenty of books. 

“I’ll secure some help in getting that out.” Jack motions at the chest. “You two gather the rest of the books. We shall expand our minds at the same time we expand our pockets, alright?” 

Anne and Masters each take an armful of books and head up top, leaving Jack with the chest. Out of curiosity, he bends and inspects the lock. To his surprise, it’s not latched - the bolt is stuck, rusted over where it’s supposed to slide freely. When he opens the lid, Jack’s suspicions are confirmed. It’s gold, among other things - a candelabra, black stone buttons with gold etchings - and, on top, five bags of various gems. Jack snaps the chest shut and slides the lock back into place. Pleased with his findings, he makes a cursory glance over the room and leaves to find Captain Boone. On the way out, he passes Anne and Masters on his way in.

“I’ll send extra hands down to aid with the chest,” he says. As an afterthought, he calls over his shoulder. "Bring the ships logs, too!” He's not sure where a merchant ship got a chest full of gold, but he'll find out.

* * *

It’s a full four days later before Jack’s able to properly inventory and write up the account on the merchant’s ship. Between haggling for supplies and selling the wares they’d plundered from the merchant, he and Whitlock leave before sunup and return well after midnight. He barely sees Anne - no wonder there, however. Jack had given her scrub duty for picking the fight with Masters and he hadn’t seen much of her since. Never mind that Masters had been assigned bilge work for inciting the fight on the _Pale Lady_ , Anne wasn't happy with him and she was making sure he knew it. If they did chance to meet, she’d glare at him with all the emphasis a teenage girl could muster before dodging around the corner and disappearing. Jack was too spent to worry about it, too busy to think very long about anything other than the next deal and the next ship and keeping the logs in order. So when he opens the chest to begin the inventory and finds only four bags of gems instead of five, he takes a full ten minutes to think over whether he’d miscounted, whether he’s just tired, or whether there’s truly a bag of gems missing.

There were five to begin with, and he knew it. Jack thinks back over the last few days. He’d left Anne and Masters with the chest, that much he knew. But surely, in the presence of one another, neither would’ve been as bold as to try swiping the gems? Then again, Masters was stupid enough to pull his sword that morning and cause the fight. And Anne had, moments before they found the chest, stood toe-to-toe with a man twice her size and tried to take him down. _Fuck!_

But Anne… Anne knew what was at stake. Surely, Jack thinks, she wouldn’t chance putting the two of them at risk of discovery. She’d know that he’d think of her and Masters first, of course.

Jack sinks back onto the floor, the weight of what he’s done settling onto his shoulders. Of course Anne knew. She also knew that she could deny it and Jack wouldn't be able to prove it - not without a search. If the gems weren’t with her things, then he’d be forced to search her. To search her things would draw attention. If he found them, she’d be in deep trouble with the captain. If he didn’t find them, he’d be forced to do a bodily search. _That_ was something Jack wanted to avoid at all costs.

Then there was Masters - maybe the pirate had swiped the gems. But if he hadn't… Jack puts his head in his hands. If he brought it up to Masters, and the man didn't have the gems, then both of them would know it was Anne who'd stolen them. Masters might be stupid, but one plus one was easy enough and it wouldn’t take much factoring for him to realize that Anne had them. Jack can see it now - Masters, realizing the theft, would turn Anne in for a chance at reward. Anne would be outed as a thief and face a punishment. To be stripped for the whipping would expose her in more than one way.

Jack's stomach rolls with nerves. He wonders momentarily whether or not he did the right thing, bringing her aboard. In a world where he’s actively avoided putting himself in compromising positions, she’s a weak spot for him, an area of vulnerability he needs to acknowledge. So Jack does the only thing he can think of; he goes to find Anne.

Through the open portholes, he can see the sun setting behind the clouds. The smell of meat cooking wafts from the galley and Jack follows the aroma, trying to name the other smells. Onion, something spicy - and maybe rosemary? They’d replenished their own spices from the merchant’s wares, a cause for great joy among the men - a little flavor went a long way in transforming the same stew they ate every other evening. 

Anne is elbow deep in vegetables when he enters the galley. The Lizard - the chef’s head cook, a string bean of a man with shifty eyes - glances at Jack as he enters. Jack nods at him, receiving a grunt in return. _So much for respect among one’s peers,_ Jack thinks. Although, looking around, he’s not sure the Lizard _is_ his peer. If it weren’t for the age-old tale of camaraderie between Whitlock and the cook, Jack would’ve found a replacement months ago.

“Um.. hello.” Jack slides into the space between Anne and the counter at her side, leaning his hip against the woodwork. He’s trying to be casual, hoping to push this conversation in a positive direction.

The force with which Anne slices carrots increases, knife banging against the table with audible thumps. She doesn’t look at him. Jack swallows hard, refusing to let her intimidation tactics work on him. He's still taller, after all - that has to count for something.

“What’re you after?” Her voice is low, uninterested.

“Who says I’m after anything at all?” Jack frowns, playing with the sprout of a carrot she’d discarded. 

“You’re always after somethin’, Jack. An’ I’m still mad, so you might wanna spit it out. Rather not talk to you any longer than I have to.”

He bites his lip, torn between a retort and a sigh. This is Anne, he’s learned. She’s everything he’ll never be and something he wishes he could be: seemingly indifferent to those around her, knowing who she is individually without the need for outside approval. 

Jack throws a look the Lizard’s way and lowers his voice. “I need you to be honest with me. If you are, I promise not to be angry. Did you swipe a bag of gems from the chest we took from _The Pale Lady?"_

Anne’s hands pause, knife hovering over the last carrot. She looks at him then, face as blank as a stone wall. 

“Are you fuckin’ with me?”

Jack feels the moment careening toward the precipice with ungodly speed and wishes he hadn't asked at all. His face says this, apparently. Anne sets the knife on the counter and turns to him, hands on her hips. 

“No. I didn’t.” Her jaw muscle flexes. “Search my things.”

“I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not so clueless as to leave it there.” He knows it's true the moment he says it. If she did indeed have the gems, she would never leave them unattended on a ship full of thieves.

“But clueless enough to take ‘em in the first place, huh?”

“I don’t know.” 

She maintains eye contact with him. “Search me.”

He scoffs. “Right. That’s a good one.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!” 

The Lizard looks over at them curiously as Jack’s voice rises, ringing through the cabin. He closes his eyes against the building headache, gathering his thoughts. When he speaks, Jack’s lowered his voice to an almost impossible level. 

“I will not violate your personal space in such a way. You’re…” he wants to tell her _you’re practically a baby,_ but that’s not quite the reason. In all but age, she’s an adult. Life forced her maturity well before it’s time. But... “I will not contribute to the list of men who’ve breached your personhood.”

She stares, wordless. Jack wishes she were more verbal, so he’d know if this is a typical silence or if he’s struck her wordless. He has a harder time translating her expressions than he does the latin in his books, and this time is no exception.

“Don’t have your gems. Ask Masters.”

A wave of exhaustion rolls over Jack. He wants to believe her, mostly does - but he can’t be wrong. It’d be easier if she had them. He’s already told Captain Boone his initial findings. _Maybe he won’t remember. I can always say I miscounted._ Jack cringes. The Captain remembers details from his childhood to a degree that was astounding. He wouldn’t have forgotten. To bring the blame upon himself would make Jack a suspect. They’d find nothing, but -

“Are you-”

“I got potatoes to peel.” 

Jack takes the hint and leaves, slamming the galley door behind him.

* * *

Anne isn’t around at dinner that evening, nor afterward. Jack shoves his bowl of soup across the table to one of the crew and leaves. He moves to his desk, tucked away in a back corner near the captain’s quarters, and writes up the account the best he can. He leaves the gem report until last. He’s tempted to leave it blank and go look through both Anne and Master’s things just to make sure, but the impulse passes and he remains seated at his desk. He’s been over every avenue in his head and they all lead to the same place; discovery and the inevitable fallout.  
Wind drove the rain into the ship with ferocity until early that morning, at which point Jack moved from desk to hammock and slept until the whistle blew.

Biscuit in hand, Jack emerged onto the deck and immediately changed direction.

“Rackham! Finished filling out the account, then?”

Too late.

Jack turned to face Whitlock, plastering a reassuring grin on his face. “Ahh - yes, I believe I’m just about finished up.”

“Good. Get it on the captain’s desk quick, eh?”

Jack nods. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Good.” Whitlock claps him on the shoulder as he passes, leaving Jack with a feeling of dread. 

“What’re you gonna tell him?”

Jack nearly jumps out of his skin. Anne had sidled up beside him, completely unnoticed.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me like that! Are you begging for an elbow to the nose?”

Anne scoffs. _Killed her husband in front of her and she’s laughing at me,_ Jack thinks.

“I could, you know.”

“You won’t," she says. She's right, of course.

A week ago, they’d found themselves on shore with some free time before their next departure. They’d grabbed food at the tavern with some of the other crew members. As they’d sat at their table, a fight had broken out. Jack had watched with interest as Anne's gaze followed each move, up to the moment the two men were pulled apart.

“Not a very good fighter, is he?” She’d motioned at the man with her mug of ale. Jack glanced at him, taking in his short stature and the rusty cutlass hanging on his chair.

“Doesn’t care for his weapons either, from the looks of it.”

“I think I need a sword,” Anne said. Jack had turned to her.

“Really? Whatever for?”

She looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Have you forgotten what we do for a livin’?”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, what ‘we’ do for a living? You work in a kitchen.”

She grimaced. “Don’t need to remind me.”

“Well if you're unhappy with it, I suppose you could always find a job on land-”

“Not leavin’ you.”

That had caused him to pause. Opportunity could present itself to her at any point - she could get a job on land, where she didn’t have to hide her identity. She could become someone, someone _other_ than Ayne Bonny, someone with responsibility and steady income, maybe even a family - but the tone of her voice said he shouldn’t even suggest it. Jack’s mind had gone to his first cutlass, stored in an old sword belt on the boat. Whitlock had given it to him on his first day aboard ship, and Jack could remember wearing it out onto the deck the first day, feeling taller than ever. 

“Come on.” 

“What?”

Jack hadn’t answered, knowing she’d follow. She’d follow him anywhere, he realized - even into danger. Of course she needed a sword. Anyone wanting her would have to get through him first, but Jack was well aware that his skills were a far cry from anything impressive.

They made their way to the market, where vendors called their wares and shouted prices over the din of animals and haggling sailors. 

“Don’t take your eyes off your money,” Jack warned. He led her to a corner of the market, to a stall containing a smorgasbord of weapons. Anne’s eyes widened, taking in the tables of blades and pistols. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.. Can I help you find something particular?” The owner approached them, wielding a smile and smooth speech. Jack played the game, and they found Anne a sword that fit her height. It was a little big for her hand, but it’d have to do.

The man stepped back, sizing it up against her lean frame. “You look fearsome, sir, if I may say so.”

Anne gripped the hilt, pulling it slightly from the belt before sliding it back in. It was a good looking piece, Jack had to admit. Slightly shorter than most cutlasses, it would be more manageable for her. Jack thought the half-basket hilt guard looked much better than the gaudy full-baskets, and Anne seemed pleased with it. He’d paid the man for the sword and belt, wincing slightly at the price.

They continued on through the market. Jack paused at a tent selling scarves, fingering a blue-silver piece. Anne walked further inside, admiring the hats. He watched her, his mind wandering to a twelve year old boy picking out the first jacket and hat he’d buy with his own money. Scarves forgotten, Jack wandered over behind her.

“See something else you like?”

Anne turned, hat on her head. It was brown with a black band, with a small button on the side that allowed the brim to be pulled up and fastened.

“Wha’d’ya think?”

She looked older, more serious.

“I think everyone needs a good hat.”

His purse lightened even further, they exited the stall. Anne saw him glance the direction of the scarves and elbowed him lightly.

“You know you didn’t have to pay for all that.”

Jack smirked. “Oh, you’re going to pay for it, my dear. Come along.”

They’d found their way to a rocky cove on the edge of the beach. Jack turned to face Anne, drawing his own cutlass.

“What’re you doing?”

“If you’re going to have a weapon, you ought to have some proper training to go with it.”

To Jack’s wholehearted surprise, Anne grinned at him - the first smile she’d offered since their paths had crossed.

They’d sparred until sundown, sand flying as they began to move faster, Anne picking up the steps with ease. What she lacked in strength, Anne made up for tenfold in speed. With his experience, however, Jack still came out on top the majority of the time. Mindful not to injure her, he’d kept the edge of the sword well away from her, and his blows were more pushes than punches. Something about Anne foretold of strength yet to come, physical capabilities to match her mental fortitude. Given time, Jack knew she’d surpass him in that respect. While he still could, he’d remain the protector.

Now, standing on the ship’s deck, the feeling is reinforced.

“Hello?”

Jack clears his throat, shaking his head slightly as her voice pulls him back to the present. “Yes, yes. You’re right.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Just thinking,” Jack says. He’s tired of thinking, tired of having to do it quietly. He works so much better when it’s a subject he can verbally process. 

“Didn’t answer me.”

“Remind me the question?”

“Jesus, Jack. What’re you gonna tell him?”

“Boone?”

“Yeah.”

Jack shrugs. “That I was mistaken on the count, I suppose.”

“He’ll suspect you took it.”

“I suspect he will.”

Anne nods and stalks away. 

_I guess that’s that,_ Jack thinks.

* * *

It’s all gone to shit and there’s nothing for it but to run.

The _Howling Corvid_ had taken damage in a raid a fortnight ago, and the two crews had sailed to a small island to careen and repair. 

That was the first mistake they’d made. Much smaller than the other islands in the nearby vicinity, the one they chose had a beach front with enough trees to properly secure the ship. The beach was walled in by a tall rock face, with one or two places low enough to climb through to the island’s foliage, but not without some difficulty. Jack had a bad feeling about it, but he was still young and barely more than an accountant to the more experienced crew. Whitlock had shrugged off his concerns.

“Who’s out here? There’s nothing here besides empty islands.”

Jack couldn’t answer, so he’d let it go. Looking back now, Jack wishes he’d pressed the issue a little harder.

“Climb the rock! Into the jungle!” Whitlock’s voice is barely audible over the sound of cannon fire. There’s panic on the beach, men yelling and grabbing for their things, pushing against the wall and vying to be next in line to climb through the narrow gaps that led to the trees.

Jack’s pulse beats in his temples as he surveys the beach. There - Anne’s running toward the rock, hand on the hilt of her sword. Without thinking, Jack calls her name. He realizes his mistake, but it doesn’t matter - he could scream that she’s a woman and nobody would pay him any mind. _Where is Boone?_

That’d been the second mistake. With the crew of the _Howling Corvid_ nearly done with the repairs, Boone had decided to make a quick sail down to a nearby port and return with fresh supplies. The weather was promising to turn sour and they’d need to make a timely journey if they were to make it to their next destination before it hit. They'd expected him back the previous evening, but night fell with no sign of the ship.

The Navy ship had come upon them in the morning fog. Normally it wouldn’t have been an issue - the ship was twice the size of the _Howling Corvid_ , but the _Argos_ could’ve managed alright - and between the two of them, there probably wouldn’t have even been an attack tried.

Jack runs to Anne and stands protectively behind her, despite the knowledge that his body won’t stop a cannonball should it come her way. The English ship continues to fire upon them, providing cover for the men rowing to shore. The thought of being killed on a no-name island is bad enough, but to be taken back to England and hanged would be the ultimate shame.

Jack leans in, voice a whisper. “If they take us, you could tell them you’re a woman. Tell them we forced you to-”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

Jack pulls back, meeting Anne’s eyes. Cannons go off behind them and they both flinch, crouching together out of instinct. 

“When are you gonna start trusting me?”

“This is hardly a matter of trusting-”

“I ain’t gonna betray you. Not even if you were dyin’ and it would save me.”

Jack doesn’t have time to answer that one, to tell her _don’t be ridiculous,_ , because the ship’s come closer and the rock is crumbling above them. Halfway up the wall when the shot hits, one of the men is sent flying. Shards of rock explode outward, and Jack feels a searing pain as he’s hit.

“Shit. Get back!” Jack presses a hand to his head and his hand comes away sticky. “Away from the wall!” 

Whitlock makes eye contact with him and nods. Jack nods back, and Whitlock raises the call, urging the men to meet the launches on the sand.

Anne is running before Jack can hold her back. Releasing his head, Jack pulls the flintlock pistol from his belt and sprints after her. The soldiers are just pulling up to the beach, armed with muskets. Jack’s heart falls to his stomach as he falls to the sand, trying to avoid death as long as possible. A soldier bears down on him rapidly. Jack shoots him from a foot away and slides his pistol back into his belt, crawling to his feet with just enough time to strike a counterblow to another soldier.

The beach is filled with sounds of battle. The cannons had stopped, now that the English men are on the beach as well. There’s a rush of activity, and Jack’s spirit rallies slightly - the crew who’d made it over the rock had rejoined them.

Jack manages to down another soldier and scans the beach for red hair, the familiar athletic frame - he spots her, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Masters. The irony isn’t lost on Jack, but he’s jerked back to the fight when a soldier rushes him. Block, counter, block, strike, block - Jack shoves the man’s sword with all his weight and slams into him, taking them both to the ground. For this, Jack receives a forehead to the nose. Swearing, he rolls off the soldier and attempts to crawl away. His eyes are watering, vision swimming - he hears a cry and instinctively rolls away, not quite managing to move out of range. The blade cuts through his sleeve, slices into his shoulder with a sting. Somehow, he manages to gain his footing, standing to meet the soldier. He blocks the incoming blow, crying out at the pain that shoots through his arm upon impact. Jack’s arm is weak, and he raises it a moment too late - another searing pain in his shoulder. Jack falters, then goes in low, a punch to the man’s thigh bringing him a moment of space. It’s not enough, though - a kick to the chest puts Jack on his back, gasping for breath that won't come.

_So_ this _is it,_ Jack thinks. _Better than England._

A streak of color flies across his vision, and the anticipated blow never comes. There’s a yell - and it’s Anne, of course it is. _Shit!_ Jack struggles to his feet, a surge of fear for Anne renewing his energy.

Time seems to slow on the beach. The sun reflects off the sand, the remaining fog merely tendrils over the island. Shouts and cries seem muffled, a background noise to the gore taking place in front of him. 

Anne had lost her sword tackling the soldier, landing on his back. The soldier reared up, but Anne latched on, legs around his torso, a forearm across his neck. With no hesitation, she reached around with her free hand and dug her fingers into his eye sockets. An involuntary shudder passed through Jack’s body as he watched, frozen in the moment and unable to look away. The man clutches his eyes, screams ripping through the air. Anne rolls off him, retrieving her cutlass. The screams cease.

Anne met his eyes. “You alright?”

Jack’s tongue felt like cotton in his mouth. “Better than him, I’d say.”

Whoops and yells erupted around them. Together, they turn to see what the men are pointing at.

It’s the _Argos_. 

His first kiss, his first fight - nothing Jack can remember has brought him as much joy as the sight of the familiar sails. A shot fired across the bow, and it’s all but over. The remaining Englishmen on the beach are shown no quarter. Jack feels it’s more than fair when he hears the final tally for how many hands died and how many more remain wounded. By all rights, Boone should be the one retrieving bodies and mourning the loss of a crew and ship. Jack, for once, was thankful that luck didn’t play by the rules.

They’re slow going, but they get the _Howling Corvid_ free and are back on the ocean by nightfall. The _Argos_ stands guard over them until they’re underway. The Navy ship stands motionless a ways off, no doubt waiting to retrieve the bodies of their men.

Among the crew killed is Masters. When his body is carried on board, Jack shoots Anne a questioning look. _What did you do?_ She stares back without blinking.

Later, he’s sitting at his desk nursing a flask of rum. Generally, they weren’t allowed to drink on the ship. The situation seemed to call for a bending of the rules, however, and Jack was obliged to take part.

“You alright?”

Anne’s voice is soft. She’s down to her shirt and trousers, a bandage peeking out from the narrow waistband of her pants.

“Are you? You’re hurt?”

“It’s nothin’,” she shrugs. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like it,” he says. His nose is swelling and the skin on his shoulder is on fire, dulled only slightly by the alcohol.

“Maybe this’ll help.”

A pouch falls onto the desk in front of him. It's covered in blood. Jack stares, dumfounded.

Anne fixes him with a steely glare. “Told you. Just have to trust me.”

The pouch sits between them, a silent declaration of truth. Jack feels a flush creeping up his cheeks, and he’s not entirely sure it’s the alcohol.

“Um.. well.” Now he can return the gems to Boone, report that they were found on Masters’ body, and put the whole ordeal behind them. Though he should be concerned with the fact that Anne had killed Masters, all Jack feels is relief. She'd been telling the truth. He sinks back into his chair with a sigh and clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Anne just _hmms_ and circles his desk. She gestures at his shoulder. “Had that looked at?”

He hasn’t. He’d hated the doctor as a child, and the ship’s surgeon is worse - there’s nothing clean here, nothing sanitary. Grimy, rough hands are the last thing he wants on him right now. He’d planned to go later and get it stitched up, once the rum hit his system. Or, if that didn’t work, he’d clean them up himself. Anne takes his silence in step. 

“I’ll be back.” When she returns, she’s carrying a bowl of clean water and a rag.

In their corner of the world, all is silent. Up on deck, the sound of shuffling feet joins the creaking of the ship. Anne ignores the hiss Jack makes when the rag first touches the wound. With hands that had ripped a man’s eyes from his skull hours ago, Anne patiently cleans the cuts, pausing when Jack flinches away.

_Pain,_ Jack thinks, _makes a woman a warrior._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was fun to write. I'll probably update once a week near Friday, but it's almost my birthday and I posted early as a gift to myself xD 
> 
> Thank you all for the kind comments! They fuel my writing and make my day. I have quite a bit planned out for these two, including the events that lead them to Vane. :) Drop a comment and give me an idea of things y'all would like to see!


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